Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
It’s modest but fitted, its delicate floral pattern one of my favorites. Blue. White. With gold buttons down the front.
I turn side to side, smoothing my palms down my stomach, assessing my profile.
Too much?
Not enough?
I step closer to the mirror, brushing my hair over one shoulder. My pulse is already racing, and I haven’t even left the apartment yet.
I add a ribbon to my hair.
Tie it in a bow and step back, admiring the sheen.
Remove it.
“This is ridiculous,” I breathe, staring at my reflection.
No, this is risky.
This is a career-ending date waiting to happen should Whitney catch wind of it.
I reach for a pair of heels and slip them on anyway.
“It’s one meal,” I mutter. “So things between us are not awkward.”
Dinner with the man who had his mouth between my legs and made me come like he knew what he was doing and wanted to make me feel good… before slipping out of my apartment.
“Stop thinking about it!”
I can’t!
I mean, what am I even supposed to say to him tonight?
Thank you for the thigh-shaking orgasm?
Lovely weather we’re having?
Ugh!
Frustrated with my indecision, I pull the ribbon from my hair and let it fall in waves around my shoulders, shaking it loose. Reach for the lip gloss, swiping it across my mouth. Pucker my lips.
I take a long look in the mirror and blow out a steady breath.
“You’re fine,” I tell the young woman staring back at me. “He’s been in your apartment; you’ve flirted with him. This is going to be fun.”
So fun, I tell myself.
“I am fun.”
In a conservative way. In a responsible, always considers the consequences kind of way, which makes this all the more exciting. I am doing something I should not be doing, because I want to, and will think about the potential fallout later.
What woman wouldn’t want to enjoy a meal with a handsome man?
It’s not like we’re in a secret relationship, we’re…
Going on a secret date.
Who am I?
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, making me jump.
I glance down, expecting it to be Blaire but it’s not.
Mom.
Of course it is. As if I weren’t keyed up enough.
I stare at the screen for a second, debating whether to answer it, because my mother does not call to say a quick hello. She calls because she’s bored. Or has a million questions about something. Or wants to gossip.
Still, if I don’t answer, I’ll feel guilty. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey!” She wastes no time cutting to the chase, but I’m not so easily directed. “What are you up to?”
I glance at my reflection again, resting my hand on my stomach to quell the nerves.
“Getting ready to go out.”
“Oh?” Her voice perks up immediately. “Do you have a date?”
My parents weren’t aware I was dating anyone—I hadn’t mentioned Preston because he and I had only been out a handful of times, even though we’d texted for almost a month.
“I’m having dinner.” It’s not a lie.
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “With who?”
I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear while retouching my lipstick. “I’m going out. It’s not a big deal.”
“Is it someone from work?”
My stomach dips.
Technically, yes.
“You could say that.”
“Is this someone a man?”
“Mom.”
She laughs on the other end of the line. “What? Can’t I ask questions? You and your brother are so secretive when it comes to your love lives. I want to be a part of your life, sweetie.”
I sigh. “I’m not so secretive when it comes to my love life, Mom. I have no love life.”
Also, not a lie.
One-night stands do not count.
“Well, I hope whoever he is, he’s nice.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I shake my head, leaning closer to the mirror to check my mascara. “It’s not serious. It’s dinner.”
“I worry about you, sweetie. You’re so different from your brother.”
I know this.
All you have to do is stick us side by side and anyone can see it.
“Well,” she says. “Speaking of your brother, I talked to him yesterday. He sounded so exhausted. Poor thing is under so much pressure lately.”
Of course she did.
And just like that, the excitement I felt five seconds ago flickers and fades at the mention of his name. If my mother finds out I’m having dinner with Aaron Bishop, she will mention it to Declan the next time they’re on the phone.
“I’m sure he’s exhausted. They’re mid-season.”
“Maybe you should call him tomorrow,” she suggests. “He always appreciates hearing from you.”
I roll my eyes. “Mm-hmm.”
Declan is a grown man who does not need constant check-ins.
“He looked fine to me when I ran into him at the office,” I reiterate.
Agitated, but fine.
I twist the cap onto my mascara, my attention drifting back to the mirror while she continues chatting. About groceries. About the neighbor’s new rescue dog crapping in my parents’ yard. I murmur my responses, brain somewhere else.
All I can think about now is the fact that I’m standing in my bathroom getting ready to have dinner with one of Declan’s teammates, with whom I should not be dining.